


I Can't Make It to Your Wedding, but I'm Sure I'll Be at Your Wake

by sariagray



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Explicit Language, F/M, M/M, Psychological Disorders, Religion, Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:11:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariagray/pseuds/sariagray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After they died, Tosh and Owen relocated to Ianto's bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can't Make It to Your Wedding, but I'm Sure I'll Be at Your Wake

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by analineblue. The title is from "Bukowski" by Modest Mouse.

_Well, see what you want to see  
You should see it all  
Well, take what you want from me  
You deserve it all  
Nine times out of ten   
Our hearts just get dissolved  
Well, I want a better place  
Or just a better way to fall  
But one time out of ten  
Everything is perfect for us all  
Well, I want a better place  
Or just a better way to fall  
       “Bukowski” – Modest Mouse_

_  
_

_  
_  
After they died, Tosh and Owen relocated to Ianto’s bedroom.

Ianto was raised a good Anglican, though he hadn’t thought about it in those terms at the time. He would sit in Church on the occasional Sunday when his mam was feeling well enough, squished between her and his fidgety sister, as the vicar droned on about concepts that didn’t quite coalesce in his brain. Still, there was a solid period of time in his youth where Heaven and Hell loomed ominously over every decision he made. 

Even in his more rebellious days, the concept of eternal damnation itched in his mind. When his father died, Ianto had passed a whole evening contemplating where the man had ended up. He hadn’t reached much of a conclusion. 

It wasn’t until he had been scooped up by Torchwood that these archaic ideals began to fade from his consciousness. His previous lessons, God, and The Entire Universe didn’t really go together, and The Entire Universe came with seventeen levels, three hundred and twenty three rooms, of irrefutable evidence.

And then, of course, life fell apart and he washed up on the front door of a tiny Torchwood outpost with a man who _couldn’t_ stay dead, and zombified coworkers that _had_ died and then returned, and all they seemed to worship was darkness, as though the afterlife were simply a torturous black hole. Heaven and Hell meant very little to him after that.

Ghosts, too, meant nothing. Emotional resonance, sure, he’d seen that, but he was fairly certain that Owen and Tosh had never had a particularly powerful moment in his bedroom. In fact, the only time they’d been in his flat had been on two separate occasions during his month-long suspension (Owen to give him a physical and Tosh to install monitoring equipment) and once together, with Gwen, while Jack was gone. 

So the sudden presence of Owen Harper and Toshiko Sato, leaning against his wardrobe and conversing in hushed tones, while the firm pressure of Jack’s tongue along the underside of Ianto’s cock sent him careening over the edge, was understandably disturbing.

As Jack propped himself up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Tosh wagged a finger at Owen. The doctor nodded contritely and placed a hand on her shoulder. The susurration of their whispers was like white noise, like the telly had been left on in the other room. Ianto frowned slightly; he wished he could hear them. He wished they would disappear. 

Jack shot him a look that was far too vulnerable for Ianto’s comfort, even after sex. Especially after sex, actually.

“You alright? You’re quiet,” Jack murmured, then nuzzled his face against Ianto’s hip, nipping at the protrusion of bone.

“Fine,” Ianto assured with as genuine a smile as he could muster, half an eye kept on the arguing pair just beyond Jack’s shoulder. “Now get up here.”

Jack grinned and obeyed.

\----

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Ianto groaned against Jack’s clavicle. 

He felt Jack’s hips stutter, the erratic thrusts jarring him. Innumerable nights of practice had conditioned him and he opened his eyes at the exact moment Jack came, hard, his face contorted beautifully as he cried out. 

Tosh shot Ianto an apologetic smile from the armchair upon which she was sitting. Owen was on the floor, his back propped up against the slope of the upholstered arm and leg of the seat. He was studying his hands like a chastised little boy and Ianto laughed.

“What?”

Ianto turned his attention back to Jack, who was staring at him curiously. 

“Nothing, just…nothing.”

\----

The way Ianto saw it, there were only two possibilities. The first possibility was that the previous months’ stress was affecting him more than he originally suspected. 

There was the cleanup of the Hub, first and foremost, and that of the city, too. The Weevils, perhaps mourning the loss of their figurehead, were out in full force and “Weevil Hunting” had suddenly become far less euphemistic. The Rift was fickle, as per usual, and lately Ianto had found himself shouldering the burdens of tech, support staff, and field agent for each mission. 

He was Gwen’s shoulder, Jack’s sounding board, and his own grief counselor (he’d had sufficient practice at it, at any rate).

The second possibility went beyond stress into the realm of psychological disorder. His mam was thirty two when she had been diagnosed, but here he was, right on the cusp of the typical onset age in males.

Unfortunately, the early warning signs could also be labeled “How to Tell You Work for Torchwood,” so they were of little help. He mentally ran down the list.

Social withdrawal. (Well, really, when did he have the _chance_ to be social? Rhiannon had called the other day, something about a cookout, but he’d begged off. It wasn’t withdrawal, though, so much as a dislike of the constant prevarications he’d have to concoct.)

Jack’s nose pressed into his neck.

Hostility or suspiciousness. Flat, expressionless gaze. Inability to cry or express joy. Inappropriate laughter or crying.

Toshiko rested her head against Owen’s shoulder. 

Depression. Oversleeping or insomnia. Odd or irrational statements (and “We need to lock up the sonic blaster before we can extract the dead Blowfish from Tesco” wasn’t irrational if it was _true_ ). Forgetful; unable to concentrate.

Owen pressed his face in Toshiko’s hair and whispered something just beyond Ianto’s comprehension. She laughed. Jack tightened his arm around Ianto’s chest.

Extreme reaction to criticism. Strange use of words or way of speaking. Deterioration of personal hygiene.

Ianto clung to that last symptom like a lifeline, as though one skipped shower would herald the descent into madness. He looked up at Owen, stared until the late doctor returned his gaze.

“What’s your diagnosis, then? Stress or schizophrenia?”

Owen frowned at him, opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Hrmph?” Jack mumbled against his skin.

Sighing, Ianto shifted closer. “Shhh. Go back to sleep. Just talking to myself.”

\----

Jack leaned against the doorjamb, his attention bouncing between the two bottles of vinegar clutched in his hands. 

“Which one? Balsamic or Red Wine?”

Ianto looked up from his notes. Apparently, no one had thought to document anything on the Ugorul except that they seemed fond of chips and were rather short in stature. Their most recent visitation had proven these statements, but left room for approximately seven pages of addendums. Especially regarding their rituals of matrimony (and how various Torchwood agents may or may not become entangled in these rituals).

“For?”

“Vinaigrette.”

Slightly more baffling than the archaic wedding customs of an ancient species was Jack Harkness making a vinaigrette. 

“And you’re making a vinaigrette because…?”

Jack shrugged, a bit abashedly. “You’ve been working too hard. Thought I’d make you dinner.”

Ianto straddled the line between “touched” and “panicked that Jack had been possessed by considerate, domestic aliens.”

“Oh, er, thanks.”

Jack shrugged again. “Well?”

“Balsamic,” he answered and Jack beamed before retreating to the kitchen.

Before turning back to his work (and it was a sad thing when lighting a lorry on fire to symbolize a “passionate journey through life” was more comfortingly sensible than a salad), he hazarded a look at his newest residents.

Curled up in Owen’s lap, Tosh favored him with a brilliant, joyous smile. Owen, his arms wrapped around Tosh, managed to look contrite, flabbergasted, and happy all at the same time. Those looks on Owen’s cynical face were even more confusing than flaming vehicles and salads combined. 

Still, he was glad to have witnesses.

\----

“You’ve been distracted lately,” Jack whispered into the dark, tracing patterns on Ianto’s stomach. 

“Have I?” 

It was a pointless, leading question, but Jack graciously accepted it and nodded against the pillow. Sighing, Ianto turned to face him. 

Sure, he _could_ tell Jack that the ghosts of his two former colleagues, two of his best friends, were haunting his bedroom at, perhaps, the most voyeuristically appropriate times. He could admit to his foray into insanity or the overwhelming presence of stress. And then Jack would pull him off the field, smother him with worry, limit his duties, and Torchwood couldn’t afford that. Not with only the three of them there to protect the entire world. 

He wondered, briefly, if they would show up if Jack wasn’t there, but it’d been three months and he hadn’t been able to test the theory once.

“It’s just…there’s…” he trailed off.

Jack nodded again, pulled him close. “I understand.”

_No, you really don’t_ , Ianto thought. He glanced up and watched as Owen pressed his lips to Toshiko’s, his hands protectively framing her face. He watched for a moment and then proper manners forced his attention away.

There was something sweet, something tragically romantic about the way they finally found each other in death. 

\----

Jack had been clinging to him for the better part of an hour. It would have been more annoying, more cumbersome, if Ianto hadn’t been clinging back just as tightly.

They were in a state of half-dress; Ianto’s shirt had been unbuttoned and removed from one arm, his belt undone, while Jack’s braces hung down below his white undershirt. Then Jack had grasped him and buried his face in the crook of Ianto’s neck.

“I almost lost you. If Toshiko hadn’t –”

“You came back.”

They both chuckled breathlessly, nervously, at their overlapping conversation. Jack kissed him, briefly, before pulling away. His gaze was bright, sharp, and still more nervous than Ianto liked.

“I – if you – I hope you know that I –”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Ianto grabbed a fistful of Jack’s shirt and pulled him back down. 

“You’re a fucking idiot sometimes,” he breathed against Jack’s lips. “But I love you, too.”

Jack responded tactilely, his mouth pressed hard and yet yielding against Ianto’s. It wasn’t a confession, not outright, nothing that could be measured or affixed with labels, but it was all the proof Ianto needed. Jack was _here_ , Jack was _now_ , and everything would be fine. It wasn’t too late.

\----

After serving their purpose, Tosh and Owen disappeared from Ianto’s bedroom.


End file.
